


the old that is strong does not wither

by asthiathien



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Also Not A Fix-It, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Dwalin Feels, Dwalin POV, Gen, M/M, Spoilers for Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthiathien/pseuds/asthiathien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin and Dwalin may be cousins in truth, but the heir of Durin and the son of Fundin are brothers at heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the old that is strong does not wither

**Author's Note:**

> _Fundinul: son of Fundin_

Dwalin has never known a life without Thorin.

Neither, if he is honest with himself, has he known a life without _Balin_ , his blood-brother and other half, the scholar to Dwalin’s warrior. Different they might be, but each complements the other: Balin uses his statecraft and diplomacy to shelter his family and Dwalin defends his brother when the threats that rise against the elder Fundinul are too dangerous to be turned aside with cunning.

But as Balin in Dwalin’s antithesis, Thorin is his mirror, the fierce-eyed prince with a temper of thunder and stone and the planning and wisdom to match.

Thorin is their distant cousin only, direct in the line of succession where Dwalin and Balin occupy the lineage of the trusted advisors to their kings. But in bond he is their brother.

* * *

 Dwalin grows up walking in step with Thorin, Balin on the other side of their young prince, living shields for the one who would one day become King of Erebor.

He learns his weapons upon the training field with his brothers, the three of them dueling together until there is nothing that can break their iron defenses, three warriors sharing a single mind in the chaos and heartbeat of battle.

And as the days began to turn darker, Thrór finally losing his fight with the gold-sickness, Dwalin is there beside his brother as a silent sentinel against the despair and shadow.

And then Smaug came, and everything in Dwalin’s world was destroyed in the firestorm that followed.

* * *

Dwalin was too young to fight with the warriors, with _Thorin_ , and so he did not see what his brothers saw, did not see the burning of his people of the wrath of the dragon as it destroyed everything they knew.

But he does see what happened after, how Balin awakes screaming from nightmares of dragon-fire and Thorin does not sleep at all, exhaustion in every line of his face yet still shoving himself forward into defense of their people simply because there is no one else left. Thrór is consumed with his guilt, having finally broken free of the sickness but too late, and all Thráin sees is the fire stealing away his people.

They try to retake Khazad-dûm, and it is a catastrophe. The dead cannot be counted, only claimed once again by the flames as their people once again burn.

Balin’s tears track freely down his cheeks as he watches their father’s body turn to ash and be blown away upon the wind, Dáin, too young to fight but ultimately holding the line long enough for Thorin to drive back the Pale Orc and rally the troops, stands resolute, swaying badly on his new prosthetic leg but still strong and unbowed, as every Durin always must be.

And Thorin stands alone, looking at no one, an oaken branch hanging from his left hand as he watches the fire take every member of his direct family but his young sister.

* * *

Dwalin finds Thorin seated at a table in Frérin’s tent, looking as if he will either cry or break something, blue eyes wide and pained as he stares unseeingly into space, breathing coming in shallow gasps as he remembers the carnage of the battle before and the blood staining the stones crimson.

And Dwalin reaches out and enfolds Thorin into his rough embrace, and his brother stiffens momentarily at his touch before he relaxes into the embrace enough to sob out the pain until he slips into an exhausted slumber.

The next morning, Thorin is proclaimed king-in-exile before the refugees of Erebor, and Dwalin cannot help but think of the celebration that would have filled the halls should this have occurred in Erebor, a century from now, after both Thrór and Thráin had completed their reigns, and looking at Balin’s eyes, he knows his older brother feels the same.

It is then that the sons of Fundin swear their eternal and undying allegiance to Thorin II Oakenshield.

* * *

Thorin leads them to Ered Luin, reopening the picked-clean mines and for several years Dwalin’s brother almost disappears under the weight of somehow making hope and wild fantasy into reality, until his sister-sons appear in this world and steal Thorin’s heart completely.

And no matter how much grief the mischief-making Heirs of Durin cause, Dwalin cannot truly be irritated at them because their antics have made Thorin able to smile once more.

* * *

He is not surprised when Thorin announces they are taking back the mountain. More and more lately, he has seen his brother’s eyes moving to the horizon, watched him disappear into his own mind for long hours as he mentally wandered the halls of Erebor.

And he has heard the conversations between Thorin and the foreman of the mines, knows that determination and willpower alone cannot convert granite to gold, and that someday soon they will have removed every last scrap of value from these mountains and will either be forced into wandering or will have to mingle with the other clans, for none can support an entire colony now.

He knows, too, that if there is anyone who can possibly hope to succeed in this mad quest, it is Thorin.

* * *

Thorin pursues the mountain with the same single-minded determination-verging-on-desperation Dwalin has always seen from his brother, and slowly but inexorably he catches the entire Company up in it.

And when Dwalin sees the looks upon their faces as they realize they can set eyes upon Erebor once more, he feels something almost like triumph that they, too, finally see Thorin as their king.

* * *

Some days, it is as if they are children again, going on diplomatic visits to Dale and going on orc-hunting campaigns with the dwarven warriors or, sometimes, the men of Dale. Sometimes, Thorin laughs and it is like the sun has broken through the clouds, and Dwalin can practically taste the relief upon his tongue.

But more often than not, Thorin disappears into the shadows of his own mind and is silent and aloof until he feels the need to correct or chide, and in those moments his words cut sharper than the finest blade.

Thorin begins to break under the weight of the crown, and for all that Dwalin does, it is very rarely enough.

* * *

But then Bilbo is suddenly there, taking up the role of the young Fíli and Kíli in Ered Luin all those years ago. And around their young burglar, Thorin smiles and laughs and it is as if the dragon never came.

Dwalin suspects he knows why Thorin is letting their burglar in so readily but he does not care, so long as his brother can be happy again.

And then they finally reach Erebor, and then it all comes crashing down.

* * *

Dwalin looks into the crazed eyes of his eldest brother, the curse of Thorin’s line striking true once more, and he feels like weeping or screaming but he knows Thorin will never hear him.

And as Thorin begs Dwalin not to think of him as _the poor, broken Thorin Oakenshield_ , Dwalin feels as if his world has just shattered once again.

* * *

Dwalin stands beyond the vision of both Bilbo and Thorin as his brother chokes out his last few breaths, apology clear in his eyes even if his fading voice is swept away by the wind. He stands as guard as he watches the life slip from Thorin’s eyes, as Bilbo coils himself into a small mass of blue coat and mithril armour until Tharkûn leads him gently away.

Dwalin drops to his knees beside his brother’s corpse, and thinks that he at least did not have to watch Kíli die, although the sight of Fíli being cruelly executed at the hands of the Pale Orc was bad enough.

He hears Balin cry out behind him, and as he looks upon Thorin’s pale features, twisted in pain even in death, he thinks of that day after Azanulbizar and wonders at what the reign of Thorin II Oakenshield could have been, had he lived long enough to reclaim the throne beneath the mountain.

He looks upon Thorin’s sightless eyes and wishes with all his heart that his brother could have worn the crown he so richly deserved.

* * *

The last of the Elder Line of Durin is entombed the magnificent burial chambers beneath the mountain, Thorin garbed in the rich robes of the king with Thrór’s gold crown on his head and the Arkenstone cupped in his cold hands.

Dwalin places Orcrist upon the tomb himself, the mighty elven blade glittering in the firelight, and he knows that a part of himself will never leave here.

Thorin needs Dwalin by his side, to defend him from whatever may come, and he will not shirk that duty again.

Far too late though it might be.

* * *

After Thorin’s death, nothing is the same anymore. Dwalin flings himself into weapons training with a new ferocity, working himself until he is on the verge of collapse to keep away the dreams. He makes Erebor’s new army run like clockwork, petitions the council with words learned after many years from his brother (and the fact that it is now _brother_ and not _brothers_ is something he refuses to dwell on) to make legislation ensuring that Erebor’s army will continue to function at its peak even after Dwalin is gone.

(He also takes the time to create an entire procedure to deal with dragon attacks, and drills his soldiers in it until everyone in the room can scarcely see straight.)

Balin throws himself into the restoration, working tirelessly with Ori to restore the great libraries and revive the forges of the dwarves. But as the years pass and the damage from the dragon and the years of silence begins to disappear, his brother turns himself to another challenge.

Khazad-dûm.

He can see the attraction, and Balin lets himself believe in it with the same wild hope he is so familiar with from Thorin.

But Dwalin also knows what that kind of desperate refusal to see the odds against them costs.

Dwalin does his best to keep them from going, but Balin will not listen to reason just as their brother had not, and he cannot hope to argue against the combined might of Ori and Óin.

Balin leaves with naught more than desperate hope and fierce denial to support him, and Dwalin’s midnight vigils beside Thorin’s entombed body increase in both number and duration until there are days when Dáin, who himself comes down to both inform Thorin of the happenings within the mountain and agonize over his decisions, shakes him awake from where he fell asleep holding Thorin’s cold hand and searching for any trace of a response in his brother’s eyes.

* * *

Five years after Balin’s expedition leaves, the others all still hold onto hope that they have simply let communication lapse for whatever reason, but Dwalin knows better. Whenever various duties drove them apart during the long years of exile, Balin would always send him a letter on the first of every month. He may not have gotten them for several months afterwards, but the date would always tell him when it had been from, and would always be there to prove his brother’s unfailing loyalty.

It has been four years and five months since Dwalin received a letter from his brother. The second-to-last letter was long and joyous, telling of the rediscovery of so many ancient wonders, and even of the finding of Durin’s Axe, though Dwalin knew about that from the official report. The last letter was short and brief, explaining hurriedly of an orc resurgence and of Balin’s concern that they might not have been as routed as he thought.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what must have happened next.

Dwalin’s visits begin to stand in for both of his lost brothers, as if somehow the improbable idea that Thorin can still hear him despite being years dead can mean Balin will be able to hear him, too.

* * *

Their little burglar is revealed to have unknowingly carried the One Ring all the way through Middle-earth, and his nephew and eight companions are tasked with destroying it. But even as this newly-christened “Fellowship” begins the long road to Mordor, Erebor falls under siege by the Shadow.

The kingdom holds out for months with minimal casualties. Dwalin is triumphantly proud of his carefully-trained warriors, though it is tempered with sorrow after Dáin falls in the last bloody assault. The last of his close cousins is now dead, to be buried beneath rock and stone where he will wait for the remaking of Arda.

* * *

Years on, Nori and Dwalin sit at a table in one of Erebor’s many taverns, in the midst of the strange mixture of festivities and mourning day that the anniversary of the Battle of the Five Armies has become.

They are the last of the Company now: Glóin died of old age about a decade or so after the War of the Ring, Óin and Ori were of course lost with Balin, Bifur died decades ago due to complications with the axe in his head, Bofur fell in the same battle as Dáin, Dori died of grief after hearing of the death his littlest brother suffered, and Bombur died only recently of old age, surrounded by his family.

It is strange that Dwalin has forged such a friendship with Nori, thief and spymaster as he is, but then again, the other has always had a strong sense of honor and he too knows what it is like to lose both his brothers.

They sit quietly as the others around them sing songs of lamentation for all the dead they have ever witnessed.

 _To Thorin_ , Dwalin thinks as he lifts his mug and clashes it against Nori’s, seeing the same sentiment reflected in the thief’s eyes.

* * *

The torch flares as Dwalin enters the silent halls of the dead, passing through archways inscribed with the Khuzdul runes for rest, peace, and sorrowful acceptance.

He stops at a door so familiar that every small blemish in the stone in burned into his memory, gently easing the door open and placing his torch into a sconce by the door before slowly crossing the room to his brother’s side.

Thorin still looks as he did when the funeral took place, even though it was over a century ago now. The magic of their race has ensured a dwarf properly entombed within stone will never suffer the decay of the other races’ dead. Which only makes the decomposing corpses yet within Khazad-dûm and those that used to lie within Erebor all that more mournful.

Dwalin settles into the chair and grasps Thorin’s hand, cupping it gently until his body heat has given Thorin’s body an illusion of life. He closes his eyes, pretending as if he could almost hear Thorin asking him to journey with him to take back Erebor.

As if it was a question that ever needed to be asked.

“Wait for me,” he says softly into the darkness to the specter of Thorin that wavers in his vision, blue eyes bright as his nephews chase each other behind him, Balin at Thorin’s side as Bilbo bobs happily beside them, amber eyes glowing with the joy he had never been able to share with Thorin in life. “Wait for me, just a little while longer. I won’t be long in this world.”

He opens his eyes and looks down upon Thorin’s pale face. “Just a little while longer, brother, and then I’ll come home.”


End file.
